


Jealousy in Bloom

by Dacelin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Plant-on-Plant Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dacelin/pseuds/Dacelin
Summary: Sometimes nice young men come to visit Aziraphale's bookshop. Sometimes they bring gifts.Sometimes those gifts are plants.Crowley and his plants don't like interlopers.





	Jealousy in Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing this as a flashback for [Serpent Delivery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054990/chapters/45262585), but I decided Crowley wouldn't be jealous of Aziraphale having gentleman callers because, 1. Aziraphale is clueless and Crowley knows it, and 2. They're human, so why bother worrying about it? But I was enjoying writing this enough to finish it as a stand-alone. Mostly because I need more sentient houseplants in my life.
> 
> If you haven't read my other stuff, all you need to know is Crowley and Aziraphale moved into a flat above the bookshop together following the apocalypse. And they have a rooftop garden. Or just read [my other thoughts on sentient houseplants.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054990/chapters/45948874)

Aziraphale studied the Peace Lily on the bookshop counter with a worried air.

It was new, having arrived in the bookshop in the past half hour. And Aziraphale dreaded how Crowley would respond when he saw it.

There had always been an assortment of young men of a particular type who wandered into the bookshop and fell into conversation with ‘Mr. Fell’. They’d talk casually about whatever books were on display the first time they visited, but then they would come back. And they’d be more interested in talking than reading the second time.

On the third or fourth visit, they’d sometimes bring something. A book they thought Aziraphale would like (he’d refrain from saying he’d already read it). Wine or chocolates which had made them think of him. 

Recently it had been plants.

When Crowley had moved in, the plants had come along. Aziraphale had assumed they’d all go to the rooftop garden, but Crowley had scolded his ignorance. Not all would endure London’s climate. They couldn’t handle the rougher winds and rains and sleet. No, many of the plants were staying inside.

Aziraphale had objected when several had been installed in the bookshop. What if they shed on his books? What if they draped vines and left marks on the covers?

“They won’t if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley had rumbled. Indeed, the plants he’d trusted to keep the angel company proved well behaved and careful never to drop a single leaf outside their pots.

Aziraphale grew to like the half dozen plants who shared his space. They were good company. They made the air smell a little fresher. They’d tilt their leaves while he read out loud. And he always knew when Crowley was coming up the street. The plants in the front window would stand a little taller and fluff out their leaves at the sight of the demon.

Despite him saying, no, he wasn’t fond of gardening, the potted plants and the addition of the rooftop garden had gained notice. Especially from those particular young men.

And sometimes now, the young men would bring plants.

After the book, or plant, or whatever, the young men would come another few times. They might talk about some restaurant they’d heard of (Aziraphale would say he’d already tried it) or a poetry reading at the university (Aziraphale would grumble about Byron being overdone) or ask how he felt about dancing (he was rubbish at it). And after a time or two, they’d go away and never return.

Aziraphale never thought much about it. He’d been having those sorts of odd visitors for some three hundred years. They were nice enough company, but really, they were often just a distraction when he wanted to read. Still, he tried to be polite.

The first time one had asked about the garden, he’d taken them upstairs.

He’d learned immediately that Crowley did not like strangers in his garden.

After he’d taken the young man to the hospital to be treated for a mild case of snake venom, Aziraphale had apologized and promised he wouldn’t bring anymore gentleman callers upstairs.

Crowley had looked at him strangely, but had stayed silent.

When the next visitor brought a fern, Aziraphale had presented it to Crowley with beaming pride. Crowley would be thrilled with the nice gift, he assumed. Of course he’d told him where it came from.

Two weeks later, he’d noticed the fern was missing, and there were bits of leaves in the blender, and the other plants were positively quaking. 

He’d asked. Crowley replied it hadn’t gotten along with the other plants. 

Aziraphale resolved not to ask about vanished plants after that.

When one lived with a demon, certain concessions were necessary. 

But occasionally after, someone would give him a plant. And he always gave them to Crowley. He was rubbish at looking after plants (the ones in the shop would have long been dead if Crowley hadn’t continued caring for them), and he didn’t know what else to do with them. It wasn’t like Crowley would fail to notice a new ficus in the shop.

But he noticed Crowley singled those plants out in particular during his tirades. He noticed the other plants grew deliberately away from them. And he noticed they inevitably failed Crowley's inspections.

And he felt very guilty sending plants to their doom.

What was he to do with this latest lily? Maybe he could give it away to a customer? Buy a book, get a free plant? But that would require selling a book. Maybe he could just take it somewhere before…

He saw the plants in the front window fluff out their leaves a moment before the door opened. Aziraphale sighed. Too late now.

“Did you know there’s a new bakery three streets over?” Crowley announced, dropping a bulging bag on the counter. “I bought one of everything. We can stay in tonight and read your new…” His eyes swept to the plant and his cheerful demeanor vanished.

The Peace Lily, apparently possessing an accurate sense of danger, made itself very flat and small.

“Now, Crowley,” Aziraphale began. “It’s a lovely gesture from a nice client…”

Crowley’s murderous gaze switched from the lily to the angel.

Aziraphale faltered, then kept on. “And I know you like picking out your own plants, but couldn’t you at least try to find a nice place for this one? Where perhaps it could live for more than a week?”

“It’s not my fault if the ones that get dropped off here aren’t good enough,” the demon rumbled. “I don’t say anything when you sell the books you’re gifted.”

That was a fair point. Aziraphale never felt qualms about selling those second-hand paperbacks people offered him. He sputtered unsteadily. “Please try to be nice to this one,” he begged at last.

Crowley picked up the lily with a glower. “It won’t be my fault if it doesn’t get along with the other plants.” 

He brought it upstairs and found a spot for it to live. He gave it water and saw it had the acceptable sunlight for its needs.

Aziraphale felt relieved.

**~**

The plants had their own ways of communicating. Despite the multi levels of the shop and flat, they found ways to spread their gossip.

Two days after the arrival of the lily. Crowley brought the Spider Plant from the bookshop upstairs. It had produced several spiderettes. He trimmed off the baby plants and potted them, leaving parent and offspring in the kitchen overnight. 

The Spider Plant spread its tales of the Peace Lily to the Jade Plant which lived in the kitchen window. The Jade told the Pothos, and from there it spread all over the flat. 

A young Lemon Tree, which had been inside recovering from two pigeons engaging in a death-match in its branches (they were now a pair of lovely garden stones adorning the garden wall), brought the news to the outdoor plants when it returned to the rooftop garden.

Within days, every plant in the demon’s collection knew the Peace Lily was not one of them and that their master viewed it with displeasure.

Nature is brutal, violent, and self-centered in its desperation for survival. A human might contemplate the peace and beauty of a forest, never noticing the roots choking the life out of each other below the surface, the canopies deliberately shading out competitors, the vines using others as stepping stools toward the sun while slowly killing whatever they’d grasped. There were those who went as far as to poison the soil around their roots to keep competitors at bay. 

Added to the natural instinct of the plants to protect their own space was their devote worship of their demon deity and years of supernatural influence on their nature. Crowley oozed demonic verve, and the plants soaked it up along with sunlight and water. It did things to them.

Over the next several days, the plants made a stunning growth effort of the most united front. The Coastal Fern and the Rubber Plant flattened their leaves across the window, swathing the Peace Lily in darkness. The English Ivy wrapped its tentacles around the lily’s stem and squeezed. Somehow the newborn Spider Plants found their way into the lily’s pots where, with tremendous effort, they tangled their roots around the lily’s, actually yanking it from the soil.

**~**

“I told you it might not get along with the other plants,” Crowley said mildly as he carried the dead lily to the curb. He fetched his clippers and went upstairs to restore the indoor garden to something resembling order. The plants bore the pruning quietly, feeling the glow of pride as the demon murmured his approval.

Aziraphale decided to encourage the young men not to visit the shop anymore.


End file.
